


In the Space of Years

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis watches them watch each other, and knows that for all the history between him and Porthos, there are years stretched out between Porthos and Flea, as well.  There are things that Aramis will never know, a side of Porthos that belongs only to Flea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Space of Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Old request from forever ago for a Porthos/Flea/Aramis threesome, so here it is. My last fic of 2014, whee. Wish I could have ended it on something I'm more pleased with, but it is what it is. "Emotional constipation" is seriously the greatest tag on AO3, I think. I'm so happy it exists. 
> 
> Happy New Year!

Porthos lies on the bed – a simple, almost lazy expanse of feathered pillows and blankets, a rather decadent thing amongst layers of curtains and rugs, foreign and familiar in the Court. 

And Flea’s pressed up to his side, her hair over her shoulder and down her back, curled along her shoulders slightly as she brushes her hand down over Porthos’ chest, touching at scars that Aramis himself has helped shape and stitch back together so many years ago. Some of the scars are older than Aramis’ time of knowing Porthos, and her fingertips linger on those most of all. The ones that she remembers. And Aramis can’t hate the sight of this, not really, because there’s a soft smile on Porthos’ lips as he looks at her and Aramis knows he’s the odd one out here. He’s the one who stepped up to Porthos’ side as he made his way down these familiar streets. 

It was Aramis who stayed by Porthos’ side as he walked his way out of the garrison, turned left instead of right, and headed towards the heart of his past. It was Aramis who moved beside him, smiled up at him when Porthos slanted his eyes towards him, and said, simply, “I’ll keep you company, if it’s all the same to you.”

Because he understood that look in Porthos’ eye – that kind of calling of a past he’d rather leave behind, but unable to do so. He knows Porthos. He knows that Porthos will never be able to turn away fully, never again. Not after Charon’s death. Aramis understands that, remembers the weight of Isabelle in his arms, the weight of Marsac in his arms. He understands. And that’s why they walk in silence back to the Court or Miracles, together. 

Neither of them admits to this kind of mutual possessiveness they have for one another – that fierce protectiveness that manifests at the oddest of times. They both know their history – deep and rich, unknown to many aside from themselves, nearly a decade of friendship – and they both know how Porthos’ heart was last ripped open when he was last in the Court. Neither of them speaks of Charon. Neither of them speaks of Flea’s injury, that clasp of bone-deep fear that he’d lost her as well. 

So neither of them acknowledges or protests why Aramis should follow Porthos back into hell. There’s no need to question it. No need to illustrate what they already know. 

But watching the way Flea and Porthos look at each other now, Aramis briefly wonders if he’d have been better off staying behind. 

Flea looks at him with a love that Porthos never recognized before his return (and part of Aramis’ heart warms at the thought, that Porthos could have been so blind to what was so obvious, what was so evidently stretched all over her face even when she tries to be closed-off; and it just makes him ache for Porthos, wonderful, straight-forward Porthos, who never understands the hidden meanings simply because he expects everyone else to be as open and true as he).

She touches his face even as she teases him, traces her thumb down his scar – a scar that Porthos had before he and Aramis ever met. Aramis watches them watch each other, and knows that for all the history between him and Porthos, there are years stretched out between Porthos and Flea, as well. There are things that Aramis will never know, a side of Porthos that belongs only to Flea. There are things about Porthos that died with Charon. Things that Aramis will never fully realize or understand. And while he knows Porthos would never find solace in the Court again, not after so many years of trying to escape it, that’s still something that Aramis will never know about him – never fully. Never as he wants to. 

He watches the way Porthos tips his head, presses closer to Flea, kisses her sip by sip, his mouth working its way from Flea’s mouth to her body, licking down her chest and over her covered breasts and down her covered stomach, lifts up her skirts and shifts down between her legs. He swallows her down and she arches. 

Flea hadn’t seemed too surprised when Porthos arrived to visit her, with Aramis in tow. She’d merely looked between the two of them, rolled her eyes, and crooked her finger to guide them inside, saying simply, “I’m not going down on both of you.” She’d given Porthos a look, haughty but playful, a look of understanding passing between them. “Or either of you, for that matter. Not if you’ve come expecting that. So long as we’re clear.” 

He’d tried to wait outside, if only to give them privacy, but Porthos had just rolled his eyes and pulled him in. Aramis stood, politely, as Porthos and Flea spoke to each other – inconsequential things, always skirting around the fact that she _stayed_ and he _left._ Aramis knows to listen for the tight pain in Porthos’ voice that he tries to disguise and he wonders if Flea knows to look for it, too, or if she chooses not to for the sake of her own heart. He can’t blame her for it, but part of him hates it, too, that someone could willingly ignore the pain Porthos tries to hide beneath his wide smiles. 

Aramis looks up and both Flea and Porthos are turned his way – and Porthos laughs, says, “Didn’t I tell you not to just stand there like a wall fixture? It’s strange as hell when it’s you.” 

And Aramis laughs, too. “Well I wouldn’t want to interrupt.” 

And Porthos’ smile turns to a full grin and holds out his hand, warm and gentle, and Aramis swallows hard and can’t say yes, but he does get up to go to him. He lets Porthos take his hand and climbs onto the bed with them, and Porthos asks him what Aramis wants to do first and Aramis laughs in delight and surprise while Flea makes a face that’s neither disapproval or approval, and certainly not a protest. 

Porthos is already undressing him but Aramis is distracted with the way Flea undresses herself. She picks up Porthos’ already discarded shirt with a look thrown side-long at him before she tosses it aside. And then she works at the ties and loops of her own dress. Her hair falls over her shoulders, curls around her breasts and she gives him a look before rolling her shoulder. “The both of you stare far too much.” 

And he may not know Flea well, but he knows well enough that he’s being teased and he grins, laughing, as Porthos’ fingers brush over the exposed triangle of his chest as he undoes the ties to his shirtsleeves. He turns to look at Porthos, drunk with that quiet protectiveness growing in his chest, flaming to life when Porthos just shrugs, smiling, doing that thing with his lips that’s not quite a pout but something more playful, more amused than upset. The thing he does with his lips that makes Aramis always want to kiss him breathless. 

“Well?” Porthos asks, as he’s stripping Aramis down. “You alright? Something on your mind?” 

Aramis wets his lips, watches Porthos mimic the gesture – and there’s only Porthos there, and he’d never be one to ignore a lady, and yet he’s saying, “You.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, you,” Aramis says, and Porthos keeps undressing him, slipping Aramis’ arm out of his coat sleeves – but he’s looking up at Aramis now. 

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks, with a small smile as Aramis nods and Porthos shrugs and slips Aramis’ other arm free. “You want me to fuck you while you fuck Flea?” 

Aramis blinks again. He turns to look at Flea, who’s stretched out on the bed beside them. He hears himself whimper. 

“That sounds like a boring time for me,” Flea says from where she’s rolling onto her side and pressing to the long length of Porthos’ torso, stroking a hand over his chest, playing absently with his chest hair. The other hand drops down to fondle at the line of his trousers, not stripping him down the rest of the way but fingertips brushing over where Aramis can see the growing curve of his cock. 

Porthos laughs, lifting his eyebrows, turning to look at her. He arches his hips a little, presses flat against her palm. “I always make you feel good, don’t I?” 

“Well there was this one time—”

“We don’t talk about that time,” Porthos interrupts, laughing louder – and Aramis feels that same, stabbing pain and twist of a life stretched out before him that he doesn’t know and never will know. All these secret moments that only Flea and Porthos know. 

“Besides,” Flea says, that same touch of flirtation even to her eye roll. “Don’t I get a say in this? You think I’m some working girl waiting for your soldier pay, do you?” 

“I’d never dare imagine it,” Porthos demurs in what almost reminds Aramis of his own deflections. Porthos is grinning at her, teasing but for the soft look in the corners of his eyes. 

“You better not,” she scoffs, tilting her head up. 

“He’s good, I can promise you.” 

“Oh I _bet_ you could.” Flea rolls her eyes. “He’s rather pretty though, isn’t he?” 

“Don’t indulge his vanity too much,” Porthos says in a mock whisper, eyes flickering to Aramis – and his expression softens for half a moment as he looks at him – and then turns back to her – “He’s impossible once you get him going.” 

“And here you go again assuming that I’ll let him do as he likes,” Flea snorts. “There you go assuming that I’ll enjoy it.” 

“I know what _you_ like, believe me,” Porthos snips back. 

“Only because I’ve had to remind you about a hundred times.”

“And don’t I always do what you tell me?” Porthos protests, and then grins as he leans down to kiss her. 

Flea scoffs again but does kiss him back, and it is at once soft and demanding. When Porthos breaks the kiss, it’s merely to waggle his eyebrows at her, tilt his head a bit towards Aramis as if in offering and lift his eyebrows again in a silent question to Flea. Flea responds just as silently, tutting once and turning her nose up. And then she merely shrugs, fingers curling around his earlobe and tugging playfully. 

There’s a hardness to the line of her face, the brief scowl she sends Porthos that he returns simply with a lifting of his eyebrows and Aramis watches this exchange, watches the blatant exchange of words and the weight of each one, how Porthos seems to revert back into something more secluded, harder in his voice and the words spoken – and it’s remarkable if only because Porthos the solider has always been strong, always on guard, and yet in their private moments Aramis has watched Porthos time and again melt into Aramis, all soft smiles and gentle touches, using his strength to protect Aramis rather than defend himself from harm. Hold Aramis down and look into his eyes with that same sincere openness that Porthos approaches life with – and it was around the second time that Porthos did that to him that Aramis first fell in love with him and all his honesty. 

Aramis understands why Porthos would avoid returning to the Court, understands why he did not snub Aramis away when he suggested he go with him. The walls and the air and the sunlight are all harder here, unforgiving. And Porthos himself must become unforgiving. It is not out of cruelty that he and Flea banter back and forth, their words light but sharpened at the edges. It is an understanding born from years of fending for themselves, years of accepting protection more out of necessity than heroism. Aramis better understands, too, the early days of his friendship with Porthos – in which Porthos moved and acted as if he had everything to prove, when secretly he felt he need not prove anything. Days when Porthos would act as if he did not care about the approval of his future brothers, when all he truly wanted was a sign that he could one day belong. 

“Fine,” Flea says after a moment and leans in to kiss Porthos again, who kisses her back indulgently. Aramis watches them with a soft look, betraying nothing (he hopes), his expression neutral by the time Flea draws back from Porthos.

Porthos looks at him, though, says nothing, but he sees the way that Porthos’ expression softens again – and Aramis knows he can hide nothing from Porthos. He lifts his hand, holds it out to Aramis, and Aramis takes it. Porthos tugs him in so that he’s sprawled out over Porthos’ chest, hands braced there, one above his heart. Porthos’ grin shows all of his teeth – warm and wide and unrelenting as he looks up at Aramis. 

“Kiss me,” he says and Aramis can do nothing but obey him – leaning in and kissing him as gently as he can manage, speaking all the words he wishes to say through that kiss. 

But they both remember themselves – or, at least, Aramis draws back enough to give Flea a fleeting look, not wishing to neglect her but feeling that slow, painful twist of his neediness, his crushing desire to hold Porthos and have Porthos only to himself. Porthos is smiling between the two of them, thoroughly unaware of what Aramis is feeling. Flea sighs out, sits up, and kisses Porthos – demanding it of him, and Aramis watches, jaw clenching once before he forces himself to relax. 

Still, a few minutes later find them without the last of their clothing, Porthos kissing Flea gently, Aramis reaching out and placing one hand on Porthos’ hip, if only to touch him. He knows better than to feel this burning jealousy of Flea – he is the one who tagged along, he is the one who’s odd man out. Yet that doesn’t mean he can’t satisfy a woman when he’s presented with one, even if that woman is in love with the other man beside him. Even if he’s in love with the man beside him, as well. 

He leans down and kisses over Flea’s breasts and shoulders, sucking marks against her skin and dragging his teeth lightly just to hear her whine happily into Porthos’ kiss. He focuses entirely on her, draws back only when Flea pushes lightly on his shoulder. He breaks away in time to see Flea nod her head down towards her legs and Porthos grinning at her and nodding back. 

Aramis watches in fascination as Porthos drags his big hand down Flea’s stomach, to the flat of her hipbone, then shifts, stroking his fingers over her and already slick with her from just that. Aramis is quiet, just watching. 

Porthos’ fingers are inside of Flea, stretching her, slicking his fingers up with her. Aramis is on his knees, watching, watching the way Porthos presses into her, the way she lies out, one arm tucked behind her head and the other stroking absently through Porthos’ hair – gentle and measured. Aramis leans in closer, fascinated with the way that Porthos’ hand looks pressed up against Flea. He leans down, kisses over her thigh, mesmerized by the crook of Porthos’ finger, the swell of his knuckle as he twists and presses in, kisses absently over Flea’s flexing thigh. He’s mesmerized by the rhythm, the twist and the slide of it all. 

Then Porthos draws out his finger and Aramis leans in without thinking about it, kissing the fingertip and then curling his mouth around it, suckling on it. He sucks on the finger, tastes Flea against his tongue – and smiles a little when Porthos makes a soft sound, something more than breathing, and slides his finger in and out of Aramis’ mouth. A slow, slick slide of his fingertip over his tongue, against his teeth, thumb brushing over the swell of his bottom lip. Aramis blinks once, looks up at Porthos, meets his eyes and holds as he curls his tongue around his finger, sucks it deep into his mouth. 

He draws his lips back from Porthos’ fingers, though, and instead ducks down to lick over Flea instead, suckling on her clit lightly and then swiping his tongue down in firm lines, waiting for her soft, breathless moan before he starts to swirl his tongue instead. A moment later, he hears Porthos’ deep, throaty chuckle and then the stroke of a hand over his hair and along the line of his jaw. Aramis closes his eyes, shivers just from that touch as he slides his tongue down and over Flea. Soon, Porthos’ fingertips join him, one sliding into Flea along with Aramis’ tongue, and he tastes both Flea and Porthos. 

“I suppose this will do,” Flea says around a breathless moan and Aramis smirks to himself, curls his tongue around the her clit and then sweeps down, swiping along Porthos’ knuckle as he buries his finger inside of her, stretching her open. 

“Will you still fuck me?” Aramis asks, shivering a little as he glances up at Porthos, who’s hunched down on the other side of Flea’s thigh, kissing over it and up to her hip, stroking two fingers into her now. He meets Aramis eyes as he licks down Flea’s thigh. 

He smiles, and it’s a smile that goes straight to Aramis’ cock, makes him shiver all over again. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, simple as that, free hand dropping down to cup Aramis, palm sliding along the underside of Aramis’ cock, who is already painfully hard. He gasps out against Flea, licks into her to distract himself from how shamelessly he ruts into Porthos’ hand, until Porthos’ fingers are curling around the base of his cock and anchoring him in place. 

“Porthos,” he whines, licks over Porthos’ fingers and up to Flea’s clit again, suckling gently, lathing his tongue and pillowing his lips over her. He lifts his hand, spreads her open, his thumb touching at Porthos’ hand briefly as he focuses entirely on getting Flea to cry out, to gasp and moan. 

Aramis hears himself mewling as Porthos begins to stroke his cock in time to the slight strokes of his fingers inside of Flea. Aramis watches in fascination, his own fingers stroking lightly over her as he nuzzles against her inner thigh, mesmerized by the way Porthos spreads his fingers, hooks into her, the way she squirms and slides against him with an ease born from years of intimate knowledge. Aramis has never seen Porthos with a woman before, only heard his stories, (renditions an sometimes demonstrations as he fucks into Aramis after long nights of swapping stories and drinking wine). This is the first time he’s seen Porthos with a woman, and it’s all the more telling when it’s a woman that Porthos loves and cares for, a woman he knows entirely. 

He tries to speak, but the words won’t come – and Porthos strokes his hand over him, thumb pressing at the underside of his cockhead, a slight swirl of his fingerprint that makes Aramis whine all the louder for it. Flea is stubborn, falling apart but refusing to be loud about it, making Porthos work for it – but her movements are rough and direct, and she rocks her hips down against Porthos’ hand and Aramis’ lips and tongue. 

Aramis murmurs quiet words, always the romantic, always the charmer, all hot lips and wet breath, mouthing out against the curve of her leg how good she tastes, how wonderful she feels, and he pushes his tongue inside of her again, teases at her, feels the hard line of Porthos’ finger, spreading to make room for his tongue. 

Flea is laughing, breathless and hitching on a moan, looking at Porthos as she says, “I suppose I can see why you like him.” 

Porthos grins, ducks his head and kisses over her breast as he moves his fingers inside of her. “He does that,” he whispers against the valley of her breasts as he drags his lips over her, letting his chin drag so she can feel the burn of his beard, and Aramis is mesmerized even as he lathes his tongue over her, focuses on making her feel good, too. His eyes are on Porthos. Porthos is laughing softly, his voice fond as he says, “He likes it when you talk back to him – he likes it, likes to be teased.” 

Aramis whines and wriggles his tongue in deeper. 

“Yeah?” Flea asks. “You like that?” 

“He does,” Porthos answers for him, his free hand lifting to stroke through his hair, pulling him in closer to Flea. Aramis whines again, obeys, slides his tongue and lips over her. Porthos’ voice is hot heat coiling inside of him. “He wants to be fucked so much – he’ll behave so nicely, if he’s promised that. He gets all breathless like that when he’s complimenting, because he wants to be complimented back.”

Aramis almost protests, almost protests that he can compliment a woman simply because she is beautiful, and despite his jealousy, Flea is lovely – he can admit that much. He almost protests that it is because it’s _Porthos_ complimenting him that he gets so squirmy and breathless. But then Porthos tugs sharply on his hair, draws him back from Flea and pulls him into a filthy, demanding kiss. Aramis moans helplessly, gasps out as he kisses Porthos, eyes closed and clinging to him. 

“I can see what you mean,” he hears Flea say. There’s a note to her voice that Aramis can’t quite place, not that any logical thought is forthcoming when he’s being held so firmly by Porthos, who nibbles at his lips and then along his jaw. He can’t breathe, and he squirms a little, trying to get closer, trying to do everything at once. 

“Responsive, too,” Porthos whispers, just for him, lips brushing along the shell of his ear. Aramis closes his eyes, lips parting, utterly melting into Porthos. His voice is a soft exhale, words that only Aramis can hear, “And so pretty.” 

And then there’s another set of hands on him, not quite delicate but smaller than Porthos. And the next thing that Aramis knows, he’s on his back, heaving and staring up at Flea as she slides off of Porthos’ hand as easily as breathing and rolls her hips up, straddling him, hands pressed down on his chest as she slides down over his cock, not letting him enter her, just brushing themselves together and Aramis blinks, disoriented and overwhelmed with just this, staring up at Flea. He moans, hands grasping at nothing and then reaching for her instead. 

“Much better,” she decides. 

“I can’t help but agree,” Aramis says, breathless with it, rocking his hips up against her, feeling her slick and wet against him, enough to make him close his eyes and groan, hands falling to her hips to keep her there, as if she were to go away. 

Porthos is behind them now, his hands falling to Flea’s hips, too, covering Aramis’. Aramis looks at him over Flea’s shoulder as he lifts Flea up onto her hands and knees above Aramis. His hands then fall to Aramis, grasps his hips and drags him down, lifts his hips up, spreads his legs. Aramis whines out, closes his eyes and blinks them open a moment later just to see Flea looking at him. 

He lifts his hands, brushes back her hair, slides his fingertips over her back and along her sides, then cups each breast and leans in, kissing her neck. She huffs a little, pleased with the attention but unwilling to give him an inch of satisfaction, even the barest reassurance of her own pleasure. He can’t see Porthos, but he certainly feels him when slicked fingers press up against him, one finger hooking in and he gasps out, arches up, feeling a mouth on the base of his cock a moment later, licking at him. The touch is fleeting, though, and soon gone – but before he can whine for more, he sees Flea’s expression shift and her eyes flutter shut, arching slightly, and he knows exactly where Porthos’ mouth has gone. He alternates between the both of them, working them both open with lips and fingers, and Aramis can’t breathe for it. 

When he focuses enough, Flea is giving him a curious look and he grins at her, unselfconscious, knowing exactly what he must look like – a man in love, and he sees it mirrored in her eyes. 

“He’s amazing,” he says in a low murmur. 

Flea quirks her eyebrow. “He’s a bit of an idiot, but at least he’s good for something.” 

He knows that this is her way of admitting that, indeed, she loves him – and for it, he can’t be angry at the slight to Porthos’ character. Still, he does frown thoughtfully and before he can say a word, call Porthos the most amazing man he’s ever known, so smart in so many ways, she’s kissing him to silence. 

Porthos works them both open, and it’s not long before Flea is being shifted again, guided down. There’s a strong hand curled around Aramis’ cock, guiding him up and pulling Flea down, so that he sinks into her as elegantly as the position allows, and Aramis chokes out a groan as Flea tilts her head back, closing her eyes and, for the most part, quiet – guarded even now. 

Aramis kisses her neck, over her shoulder, watches Porthos over her shoulder. His hands grip her hips, then slide to cup her backside, spreading her down onto his cock and rocking up a little into her before she takes over, rolling her hips and riding him out. He watches Porthos spread him open, watches Porthos slick up his own cock, watches as he enters him and Aramis cries out, scattering kisses over Flea’s shoulder until he can relax. 

Porthos is smiling at him, crooked and open, bowed over a little and pressing kisses to the arch of Flea’s spine. Aramis is utterly mesmerized. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, and Aramis nods, nuzzling to Flea’s shoulder, feeling Flea respond against the line of his jaw. He parts his lips, wants to say so much as he looks at Porthos, who grins at him in that crooked, happy way of his. But he stays quiet instead, contenting himself with watching. 

It takes a few moments for them to work out the pace, the movement of it all, but it amounts mostly to Aramis staying where he is and watch Flea and Porthos move. Flea sits up fully, rides him like that, and Aramis watches as one arm curls around her waist, holds her back to chest with Porthos as he thrusts into Aramis, who’s a helpless, moaning mess soon enough. It all punches into Aramis, and it’s too much, and he’s overwhelmed with it – knowing that he can’t hide the looks he’s giving Porthos over Flea’s shoulders, knows that Flea is looking at him knowingly when she’s not turning her head to demand attention of Porthos, too, the two of them kissing sloppily, inelegant as they both rock down against Aramis. 

Like this, he isn’t able to hold back, cries out a weak warning before he’s thrusting up into Flea and coming. She writhes against him, rocks against him, rides him out until he’s spent and he’s a heaving, gasping mess of words and emotions, unable to articulate them and just grasping weakly to Flea, holding her and guiding her along. When he remembers himself, his hand falls down between her legs, presses to her clit, and strokes over her until she’s riding his fingertips instead of his softening cock and Aramis is a weak, shivering mess as Porthos continues to rut into him. 

“Please,” he gasps and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, or to whom he’s begging, but he feels Flea clenching around his fingertips, feels Porthos thrusting deep into him – and he’s gone, gone, completely gone, and he’s sobbing and begging but doesn’t know what for. 

He watches as Flea comes, held up by Porthos, supporting her, hands running over the flat of her stomach, cupping her breasts, nuzzling and kissing at her neck – and Aramis can only watch him as he does that, watch as she rocks down against Aramis’ hand. He’s mesmerized by the way Porthos’ lips fold and pillow down her skin, the way his eyes fall shut, the crisp line of his smile, the sharp line of his teeth – and Aramis is _gone_. 

“Told you he was good,” he hears Porthos say against Flea’s neck, and Flea’s laughing, just a touch more breathless than he’s seen her before, and she does actually moan this time, wriggles her hips down against his hand. 

“He’ll do,” she agrees, and Aramis knows he’s met her approval. 

Porthos laughs, though, and continues to thrust into Aramis, even as Flea climbs off of him, slides up to Porthos’ side, draping over his shoulders. He holds up her weight easily, bracing his hands down on either side of Aramis. 

“Hear that?” Porthos asks, addressing Aramis, “She likes you.”

Flea rolls her eyes, but also doesn’t protest, and Aramis makes a weak sound, almost pathetic even to his own ears, and lifts his hands to touch at Porthos’ face, draws him down and kisses him, arching up. 

“Come inside me,” he demands, bites down on Porthos’ lip, just the way he wants him to. 

Porthos hardly needs the encouragement – Aramis knows the arch and shape of Porthos’ thrusts, knows exactly when he’s close to coming, and so it only takes a few simple strokes before he’s rocking down hard into Aramis, moaning out, and coming. 

When Porthos is spent, when he collapses beside Aramis, Flea on his other side, Aramis smiles a little, indulgent, runs his hand down along Porthos’ cheek and just drinks him in. Flea kisses over Porthos’ shoulder, lingers on the scars that Porthos has had for years and years. Aramis touches at the scar above his heart, one of the first ones he ever stitched for him. 

“Alright?” Porthos murmurs, looking at Flea, waiting for her to nod before he turns towards Aramis with a soft smile. “And you?”

“I’m alright,” Aramis says, leans in and kisses him – slow and generous and melting into him. Porthos kisses him back, sighs out happily, and settles down on Aramis’ side. When he draws back, Porthos’ smile is small, secretive – and Aramis knows that, for all the years that he and Flea share, there are years that only he and Porthos share. And he is content with that, warmed from the inside out. 

It isn’t long before Porthos lapses into a light sleep, not quite snoring but clearly relaxed and sated. Aramis smiles, fond, loving this man for all the world. 

When he looks up, Flea is watching him, thoughtful. Aramis knows she’s seen straight through him. But he meets her eyes evenly, knows that she would have kicked him out straight away if she hadn’t wanted him here. 

But they both love Porthos, and they both know it. So it’s alright. 

He smiles at her and she smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
